


Instinct

by pinklatent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, One Shot, POV Outsider, SPN - Freeform, Soulless Sam Winchester, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinklatent/pseuds/pinklatent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For monsters like you, Sam Winchester's lack of soul makes him more of a danger, but less of a threat. And so you didn't think twice in taking the older Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> Set on season 6, with soulless!Sam

See, there is a common misconception about Sam Winchester’s lack of soul. His lack of emotional attachment made him less of a human being and more of a hunter; less of a brother and more of a partner.

For monsters like you—more of a danger, but less of a threat.

The Winchester brothers were legends to those who they hunt. Nobody escapes them intact. Every single one they come after—all gone, never heard of again.

Now here is where Sam Winchester’s lack of soul plays a role in you being the aberration to statistics. Monsters don’t have souls. It only makes sense to come to the conclusion that Sam Winchester is the equivalent of a monster. And since the thing that made the Winchesters so fearsome, so dangerous, is their unerring devotion to humanity, compounded by their fierce devotion to each other, Sam Winchester losing his soul meant that all that is gone. All that made him a Winchester, lost.

And so you didn’t think twice in taking the older Winchester.

He curses at you, spits and coughs up blood and slurs, and you delight in it. One of the most dangerous hunters of all, right here under your mercy—the sweetness of it almost like dining on the most exquisite cuisine made of human flesh.

But you were careful, too. Cautious. Not going to relax just yet and then be blindsided later and end up dead. You watched the younger Winchester from a distance. The man had been researching in a nearby library, and had just come back to their rented motel room. You observed as he looked around the empty room, the brief contemplative glance at the parked black car in front of their room, the unconcerned raised eyebrow as he tried to call his brother’s cellphone and found it wedged between the nightstand and his bed, the nonchalant tilt of his head as he briefly perused the abandoned stack of paper that his brother was supposed to be reading (he didn’t notice the papers you swiped and torn, the papers that would have lead him to your precious lair),. You grinned with glee as his only action was to shrug and then go to a bar, where he proceeded to drink and chat to a woman who was showing more skin than clothing.

And you laughed with excitement as you slink back to your lair, because now that you’re sure that the connection is gone, you can do what you want with the older one. And while you take your sweet time stripping the flesh off of bones and savoring every drop of blood, listen to his screams like your own orchestra, you won’t have to fear about the younger one taking his revenge.

And see, there’s your mistake.

Sam Winchester is Dean’s brother. A Winchester, bathed in blood and sacrifice. The instinct is imbedded, not only in their soul, but in every cell of their body, every drop of blood they share, every fiber of their being, developed from the cycle of sacrifice that tied them in a bond so tangled that it cannot be severed, even in the absence of something as vital as a soul.

The undercurrent worry and anxiety may be absent, but saving each other has always been an instinct neither of them could ignore.

And while you were taunting Dean Winchester, reveling in your victory, getting ravenously hungry as you listen to his repeated threats interspersed with pained grunts and screams as you push a blunt metal pipe clean through his stomach (like a barbecue, you hiss into his ear, always wanted to try one out. Grilled human flesh—doesn’t that sound appetizing? You wipe your face as he spits blood at you, and you twist the pipe in your hands. He screams and you laugh), while you were busy skewering Dean Winchester, his brother had already determined where your lair was and you were as good as dead.

Because you while you were observing Sam Winchester, you were so reassured by his detachment, that you didn’t realize that him looking around the room was him noticing that something was wrong, that the brief glance towards the car outside was him confirming that his brother should have been in the room, that the brief call to his cellphone had confirmed that his brother was taken, that the perusal of the papers and what was missing had all but rolled out the red carpet of the location of your lair, and that him going to the bar was all just to trick you into complacency.

Because Sam Winchester without a soul, unclouded by urgency and fear for his brother’s life, is efficient and fast and the perfect fucking hunter the world has ever seen.

And you now just realized that by taking his brother, you made yourself his prey.

At the sounds of his footsteps echoing throughout your tunneled lair, those footsteps fast and firm and confident, as if announcing your inevitable death, Dean Winchester laughs, pipe sticking out of his stomach and essentially keeping his guts from spilling out, and announces:

“Here comes Sammy!”


End file.
